


should have known better

by caermit67



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Dibellian Curses, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22634854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caermit67/pseuds/caermit67
Summary: The new guildmaster gets cursed by Dibella, and now suddenly the whole guild is trying to get into his pants. He doesn't mind the presence of one thief as much as he should...
Relationships: Brynjolf/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Dirge/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Karliah (Elder Scrolls) & Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, theives guild/Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Comments: 1
Kudos: 63





	should have known better

The fire crackles, yellow orange glinting off the coins resting in Tyr’s golden skinned palm. He entertains himself with the clinking of metal as they dance between his fingers, a game he used to play on long nights to soothe his nerves. His gloved hand is still, resting on the edge of the small oak table he is sat at, alone. 

No one in the Silver-Blood Inn dares to approach him, the two abandoned chairs untouched from the moment he’d claimed this table as his own. The mysterious traveler, masked and hooded in the darkest black leather, nightingale bow leaning propped against his chair. He doesn’t bother to leave room as he stretches out, long legs extended under the table and propped up so as to give the v of his torso all the attention it deserves. He gets furtive looks, both from men and women alike, fear and curiosity in their eyes, though no one dares to meet his gaze. 

They aren’t wrong to fear him. His work as Guild Master of the Thieves Guild, however shortly lived, has made the most feared band of pickpockets thrice as dangerous and better supplied then ever. Mercer saw nothing but immediate gain, had not the time for mending ties that had frayed between Riften and the other holds, but when the imperial looked at a map all he saw were opportunities. 

He had come to Markarth to do the same here, cozy up to the notoriously rotten Silver-Bloods and come out the other side a little heavier in the pockets. But when push came to shove, the Guild Master showed those pompous bastards what happened when you antagonized a nightingale. 

The forsworn hadn’t been picky about where their arrows flew, and with not only Thonar Silver-Blood bloodying the canal but more than a few guards, Markarth had not stopped buzzing with fear mongering gossip for days now. While there was no way to prove Tyr’s involvement, these were not times for lingering strangers with intimidating faces. 

His work was done in the Warrens, cementing an alliance with the forsworn both in and out of the city, laying down emergency stashes and investing in a nimble hand here, an open ear there. There was little left to do but share a drink with the cold stone walls before he caught the passing carriage back to Riften, where his fellow thieves waited.

The night was beginning to darken in truth, and the dim starlight called to him. Abandoning his chair and drink, Tyr swung the doors to the Silver-Blood Inn open, closing his eyes briefly against the gust of cold air that greets him on the other side.

A man follows him out.

“Hey you,” Degaine whispers, a beggar Tyr had heard talk about down in the Warrens but never actually met in person. He had some respect for the man strutting around the town market itself, risking jail time just to make a few extra coins, but that respect didn’t stop him from wrinkling his nose at the putrid smell. 

“Word is from down below that you’re from the Thieves Guild?” He leers a little closer, “Heard you backbiters got back on your feet. You looking for a little work before you hit the road? It should be easy for someone of your… talents.”

And maybe Tyr should have known better, but unheaded by reason he slipped out of the temple doors and vanished in completion with Nocturnal’s blessing, clutching the statue under his cloak. Seconds later, the Priestess came bursting out, confusion and fury wrought across her face.

“Curse you!” She shouts, “Curse you thief, curse you to never take a step without Dibella following you!” Slamming the great doors of the temple behind her, Tyr uncloaks and drifts along the darkest edges of Markarth, feeling uneasy.

Perhaps he should have known something was wrong when Degaine offered a prize of the flesh as well as one of coin when the statute was passed between dirty hands, a sudden burning lust in the beggar’s gaze that had Tyr fleeing in his own state of confusion and slight disgust. 

But as it was, he did not know, and for that everything that followed was partially, if not entirely, his own damn fault. 

\--

Dirge was, unsurprisingly, the first person he saw. He happily removed his nightingale hood and helm, slipping them into his bag and ruffling his sweaty hair with a spare thought. He looked like he’d stepped right out of the lake, the way he was soaked from riding all night in that mask. 

Tyr gave the bouncer a nod as he walked across the drawbridge, not missing the way his loyal guard dog looked him up and down in slight awe. He smirked a little to himself, confused but not offended, eyes already drifting off him and over to the crowd of thieves on the other side when they snapped back at a sudden movement in his peripheral. Dirge fell back so quickly the action was almost non existent, but there wasn’t much that could escape Tyr’s sharp eyes. Dirge had made a move to stop him. 

“....Everything all right?” He asked, a note of danger slipping into his cautious tone. Dirge made a noise, a choked groan from deep in his throat, then slapped a hand over his own mouth, looking horrified. Tyr raised a careful eyebrow, giving the nord an assessing look.

He was wide, wider than Thrynn even, who was the heaviest of all the thieves, by far. He cut an intimidating figure, but biceps that could crush skulls and abs harder than rock didn’t scare Tyr, never had. Under it all he was a bit of a dunce, easy to manipulate and willing to obey. He was loyal, and up until this point Tyr had never thought to question what he was thinking. As the nord’s pupils widened to the point of blackness, the Guild Master couldn’t even try to guess what was on his bodyguard’s mind. 

“Dirge,” he tries again, and the man honest to god moans, the sound muffled by his palm and finally attracting the attention of the crowd in the Ragged Flagon. (He’s lucky it’s dawn, or there would be the shopkeepers to worry about too.) Well, it was either that moan what alerted them, or the startled shout that is cut off as he is shoved backwards by two strong hands grabbing at his leathers then quickly forward again, his teeth clacking against Dirge’s hard and with a strong burst of pain. 

Whatever noise of surprise he makes is swallowed by Dirge’s hungry mouth, red hot and tingly against every part of skin it touches. His brain whites out when one of those strong hands dropped to his hips, pulling him closer by the pelvis so that the hard outline of his bulge rutted into the dip above Tyr’s hip, and when the nord thrusts into that with a belly deep rumble, the imperial has to break away, overwhelmed.

His lips still buzz as they rest against the bare of the nord’s throat. His whole head was foggy with desire, swirling like a wisp of smoke, coherent thoughts just out of his reach. It reminds him of- where is he? Tyr takes a second to remember that oh gods, he is standing in the Flagon before stumbling backwards, shoving Dirge off him and turning to face the Thieves. 

Blown eyes, ruddy cheeks and dropped jaws stare back at him. No one speaks, watching his every move like he was Dibella herself in the flesh, every shift of his weight the most intoxicating thing they’d ever seen. 

Dibella’s name bounces around in his skull long enough that he can push the fog back and think for a moment, that maybe everyone in the Thieves Guild hadn’t just suddenly gone insane.

He knows Dirge is behind him before he feels him, even in his uncompromised state, and it’s a mark towards his newly found integrity that he doesn’t moan out loud when the nord’s head ducks down to suck a bruise into his neck. Hands hike up the leather tunic of his nightingale armor and fingers dance across his exposed midsection and this time he can’t hold back a hitched breath that makes everyone in the Flagon white knuckle the surface they’re leaning against, like they’re a muffled whine away from breaking the surface in half. 

He has to clear his throat when Dirge’s fingers start to fiddle with the buckle of his pants and he finally manages to say, in his best attempt at a commanding voice, “Stop.” 

He can feel the rumble of Dirge’s moan against his spine at the order, but the nord (thankfully) obeys. He steps away again, taking deep, calming breaths. 

Delvin, Vex, Tonilla and Vekel are thankfully the only ones in the Flagon for the moment, not that the shame of this incident will be any worse for it, but at least they’re all mature professionals who might be persuaded into forgetting the time they were overcome with the sudden need to express their carnal desires for the Guild Master. Unfortunately for said Guild Master, Vex alone could take him in a melee without breaking a sweat, so getting out of this room might pose quite the problem.

“Say ‘skeever droppings’ if you haven’t been cursed by Dibella to want to fuck me?” Tyr asks, tentatively. At the words “fuck me,” the tension in the room seems so thicken considerably, to the point where Tyr thinks he might choke. Behind him, his bouncer growls huskily. 

He eyes Dirge, who is panting heavily with eyes blown so wide it makes Tyr wonder how he could even understand the command through his fog. He makes a mental note to thank Dirge for his unwavering loyalty later, when five of the best criminals he’s known weren’t staring at him like he was a morsel they’d just love to devour. 

“Dirge,” he asks, breathless despite his best efforts at controlling himself, “You want to be the one to fuck me, right?” 

The whine that comes from the nord at that is so pitiful it sends shivers down his spine like liquid adrenaline. Delvin looks one word from decking the bouncer, and Vex has shifted in her seat, ready to pounce. 

“If you want to fuck me,” Tonilia whimpers lustfully, quivering in her seat, but Tyr only has eyes for Dirge, “then you have to do one thing for me - and no killing anybody for it, do you understand? Can you do that? Can you take care of me before you fuck me?” 

The nord seems to have lost the ability to speak, so moaning and nodding furiously is the only response Tyr can pull from him. 

The Guild Master takes a deep breath. “I need you to stop anyone from following me through this door,” he says, bolting for the cistern before the words can be processed. 

He slams the entry closed behind him, feeling the crunch of fingers and hearing Vekel’s curse. For a second he panics, until he hears Dirge’s roar of fury through the thick wood and the stray limbs are yanked from his line of vision. When the door shuts with a click he doesn’t hesitate a moment, stuffing the keyhole with a lockpick and snapping it off at the edge. He steps back in time to hear angry shouts and fighting, confident having trapped his fellow thieves on the other side of the heavy oak. 

Confident until he turns around, and Brynjolf is looking back at him. 

Tyr’s mouth goes dry. A flush is creeping up the nord’s neck, and his eyes too are growing blacker by the second. “Good to see you,” he offers, weakly, “Nothing burn down while I was gone?” 

Bryn’s voice is so husky when he speaks that the guttural vowels sink into his bloodstream like fast acting poison, “Nothing quite yet, but I would be more than happy to remedy that, laddie.” 

“My control is slipping,” he begs, “But I’ve been cursed by Dibella and everyone keeps trying to fondle me.” 

Bryn takes a step forward, eye’s sharpening with a jealous growl, “everyone?”

Tyr is the one who bridges the gap, letting go of his resolve and cupping Bryn’s face with both hands, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that resonates throughout his body like a symphony and wipes his mind of everything but the feeling of tongue, and hands, and chest against his chest. 

They fuse together so tightly that letting go would feel like cutting off his own limb, and even when he runs out of breath he can’t go further but to bury his face down into his shoulder, biting deep into his collarbone that he might feel it even through the leather, leather that is in the way and needs to be off, now. Bryn wastes no time in pushing him up against a wall, kissing up and into him like he would die without the oxygen in Tyr’s lungs, like the taste of his tongue is the elixir keeping him alive. 

Tyr thrusts one hand into Bryn’s hair, the other working at the buckle on his hip. Bryn’s own hands make for his chest, smoothing across the leather and leaving tingling heat in their wake, pleasure like tidal waves rippling through his body from every point at which they touch. His tongue tastes heady and leaves the imperial light headed, like drinking honey wine by the tap. Bryn’s tongue does something that has his brain heating up like jostling the coals of a fire and Tyr can’t help but moan, the deep rumbling in his throat echoing between their chests. 

He hears a faint whistling, and something cold pricks his neck. He separates from Brynjolf’s perfect mouth with a gasp, and he’s sure he meant to have a thought but Bryn takes the opportunity to grab his thighs with those fucking strong hands and lift him up, his balance shifts and he grasps at the wall before scrambling for Bryn’s neck. Then they’re kissing again, and it’s searing, he can’t help but weaken a little. The strength in his hands go first, weakly slipping out of Brynjolf’s mane and trailing down his shoulders, then his lungs start to work harder, and his core can no longer engage. He’s slipping, falling backwards against the wall and then suddenly very fast down. 

That, embarrassingly, is when Tyr passes out.

-

Karliah is the first face he sees when he wakes up, feeling a little sore around both his bruised tailbone and ego. 

“You’re lucky I chose a dart and not an arrow,” she says, and Tyr attempts to reminisce fondly over the days where she would have perhaps started with concern, or an apology. 

He blinks a few times, orienting himself in the room - his house, in Riften. He waves off Karliah’s expectant eyebrow, “Yes, yes, I’m sure I’m very thankful. How does the guild fare?” 

“You’re lucky most of the recruits who I was handling in the Cistern were occupied with other things. As it is, none of the affected parties remember very much at all,” Karliah’s tone softens, and Tyr breaks eye contact with her, rolling to sit at her side on the edge on his bed, “Though Brynjolf in particular seems disquieted. It pains them that they may have acted in lust against your wishes.” 

He laughs, and can feel Karliah watching him as he puts his head in his hands. “I remember distinctly Dirge demonstrating some remarkable restraint, though he owes Vekel one for breaking his knuckles. As for Bryn….” Tyr chuckles, weakly, “It is mostly I who owes him an apology. He acted against his wishes. I did not.” 

Karliah stills completely, and Tyr knows she understands the gravity of what he has said. Whether or not he can sweep this mistake under the rug relies entirely on his own skills of deception going forward, and that is only made harder by having his secret known.

“I…. I am sorry, my friend.” Karliah places a hand on his shoulder, and Tyr nods, still staring at the floor. “It is good to have someone to share your pain with.

Tyr laughs, a convincing one too, and turns to face her with a grin. “Pain? I’ve more material to keep myself company on the long open road than I could ever dream! Plus, a favor to hold against Brynjolf next time he tries to “lad” me.” 

Karliah meets his gaze, and is almost convinced. “If you insist,” she replies, cautiously, “but if you wish to take some time away from the sanctuary, I can make your disappearance.. discreet.” 

Tyr nods, knows his mask falls. “That would be nice, thank you.” 

Karliah leaves the room almost imperceptibly, simply stepping out of his field of vision and vanishing in completion, like he had simply forgotten she existed. Tyr takes a beat, to be sure she’s gone, and when his senses reveal nothing but silence he puts his head in his hands and lets out a deep, long breath. He sighs like he’s trying to remove the honest air from his lungs, the vulnerability that feels as though it’s choking him.

And from the hallway outside his room, Brynjolf leaves just as swiftly.


End file.
